


bad blood

by Miraphina Atherton (mew_tsubaki)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Dark Magic, F/M, Violence, also Carrow twins not rly related to A&A, not super graphic but yeah, strong T rating btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 05:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21010145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mew_tsubaki/pseuds/Miraphina%20Atherton
Summary: There was something missing in her family tree. With Amycus' help, Flora would burn it into her bloodline.





	bad blood

**Author's Note:**

> The Harry Potter characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not to me. Read, review, and enjoy!
> 
> *Note: Disturbing content ahead. Literally, turn back if you're not certain you can handle something from a villain's perspective or Dark material.

They're fresh out of school, and the war seems so far away. It's as if they've removed themselves from the world and have become nothing more than onlookers.

Hestia turns into a Nervous Niffler, seeking out each _Prophet_ as if it's the world's finest gold. She craves the news, in bits and pieces and whole chunks on which to gorge herself. At times, she stays up late reading, and she looks like hell in the morning, all greasy, lanky hair and bruised bags under her eyes.

She's come to look nothing like her twin (at least in the ways that matter).

Flora could care less. She spent seventh year growing impatient with how Hogwarts' politics were playing out. Slughorn coming back should've been a turning point—his selection of the best of the best should've proved to people that some were simply better than others. That was just how life worked.

But no. Blood politics weren't going to come into play while Albus Dumbledore was alive.

The first time she has this thought, it's the day after Dumbledore's death shocks the Wizarding world. There's a zing that ripples throughout the community, reaching far and wide well beyond Europe. Even at the breakfast table, their parents rehash current events, the seedling of a news addiction that implants itself in her twin.

"Even two years ago—almost three—things reeked of change," their father, Picus, states. It's his cool, charcoal gray eyes the twins share, but his are nervous and empathetic in a way Hestia's are and Flora's are not.

Rhea quirks a sharp, arched eyebrow; her daughters have the same shape, though it's less severe on them. "Your use of the term 'reeked' is inappropriate, Pi."

He frowns, the girls watch the exchange, and Rhea shakes her head at him. "Rhea, the times have changed. They can't go back."

She grimaces in response and, to Flora's distaste, softens at her husband's words. "No, I know… You're right. The days of the purebloods are over…"

The sentence "But those days are coming back" dies on Flora's lips. If only her mother had remained proud of her heritage in a way her stupid father had disowned his, then she would've had an ally in this house.

Then Flora would not have felt so alienated.

* * *

Flora feigns interest in work search once she decides it is them versus her at home. Though their house is on the smaller side compared to other pureblood mansions, their manse is just large enough, and her parents concede to letting her take another room all for herself.

Hestia puts up a protest, standing in the doorway as Flora packs up her things. "But—Flora, must you? Eighteen years—"

"—is more than enough," Flora insists. "You're my twin, but we'll be nineteen soon enough. It's impossible to think we'll be together forever." Despite her annoyance at how much they've grown apart the past year and three months, that twin connection softens her tone as she insists, "I'm only moving down the hall, Hestia. That's all."

Hestia's lower lip quivers—but many things make her shake these days. It's not only _Prophet_ reports but now Muggle news, as well. People were disappearing last year, but they're staying vanished now. They're being publicly taken now, and the Ministry won't do anything because its hands have changed. It doesn't take an idiot to realize Voldemort (or at least his followers) are coming into power. Even the girls' parents are careful about their skeptical whispers in their own house these days.

And that's why Flora can't wait to leave. No one will make it easy on her to escape outright, because her parents "want to keep her safe." They don't want the twins to be victims, targeted or accidental.

"Put off your next chapter for now," Hestia tries to reason. "We all need to keep our heads down right now."

Flora finishes packing and keeps her comment to herself.

* * *

…but she doesn't stay silent for long.

That summer, the upheaval is complete. The Ministry is in dubious, anti-Muggle hands. Diagon Alley is nothing more than a lane full of broken glass and boarded-up windows.

And Hogwarts… Yes, at Hogwarts, Death Eaters have a home.

Flora doesn't need to be friends with a younger, current student to hear everything that's transpired. What they don't read in the paper, the Carrows hear from the horse's mouth—though Rhea sees her so rarely these days, Narcissa Malfoy relays the changes to her old friend, and Rhea doesn't care if the walls hear her as she heaves a sigh of relief in front of her family.

"Thank Merlin you two have graduated already," she quips. Her eyes are misty, and she looks at the twins in turn without really seeing them. It's as if knowing they're safe now makes her nostalgic for when they were little and their safety had been one hundred percent on their mother's shoulders.

"Agreed," Picus remarks. He pours himself a third drink, and he's on to number five before the tremor in his hand ceases.

"Thirded," Hestia says lightly. Her smile's too big, too bright for this world, and their parents smile because of it.

"At least there will be some real discipline at Hogwarts for once, with _them_ around," Flora says.

The sitting room turns stone-cold. Rhea glowers at her, but Picus, with too-wide eyes, yelps at her, "Don't you _dare_ say that, Flora!"

She shrugs, feeling rather comfortable with their looks of discomfort and her father's of horror. "They're Carrows, too—"

"_In name only_," he spits. The grip on his glass is too tight. The glass splinters, and he manages to set it down quickly before it makes ribbons out of his hand. "You know we've no relation to them, none at all—"

"Because we're only half-bloods," she mutters under her breath.

"Yes," her mother cuts in, sharp and reprimanding. "As are they. The ancient bloodline became diluted well before your father's great-grandparents even met. And those two—"

"Their names are 'Alecto' and 'Amycus,' according to the old Wanted posters."

"—_those two_," Rhea continues, undeterred, "are as pure as any of us four. There's some speculation that they're not even fully related to each other," she adds. It sounds like a jab at how they grew up, but it comes across as an afterthought.

Flora lingers on the afterthought, thinking on an old detail she must've heard ages ago, that Amycus and Alecto are twins, same as her and Hestia. But maybe it's not true at all, and maybe there's something more to the bond that keeps them together, tighter than the bond she and Hestia have, a bond that's loosening as more and more time passes.

Once, she might have frowned at the idea of losing half of herself, the half that resides in Hestia Carnelia Carrow. But these days?

These days, she's feeling more like one being all on her own. Flora Seraphinia Carrow.

_Hestia, who?_

* * *

She counts her savings once, twice, three, five, eight times. She has enough. She can do this.

"Move _out_?" Picus asks. He sits at his ebony desk in his study. It's one of many black things in this room, but his face is bright red much like his personality.

How un-Slytherin of him.

Picus shakes his head, bringing his daughter's attention back to him. He puts his quill down and gets up from his chair, hustles out from behind the desk. He makes as if to reach for her hands, to hold them in his the way he used to when she and Hestia were little, but something stops him. Whether he recognizes (and acknowledges) the change in Flora, she doesn't know. But he shakes his head again. "No, Flora. You can't."

"Actually, I can."

"But why? Why now, of all times?"

"Because." She stops, not to prepare herself for this speech but to take a breath. "Life does not stop, even for war. Even in…Dark times."

He blinks. Some of the color fades from his face.

Ah. So she did choose her words wisely. They do make her sound wary of the outside world right now, after all. But will it be enough to convince him?

"…oh," he finally says. He leans back against his desk, and his eyes have a hard time focusing on the rug beneath their feet. It's a rug half made with Demiguise fur, so some threads come in and out of sight depending on how the light hits it.

If Flora took anything from home, she supposes this would be that one item. Nothing else in the house is worth anything to her, not even the other people in it.

"But—what will you do?"

Aha. Flora tamps down her triumphant smile as she weaves her words as intricately as her father's favored rug. "I'm planning on going into investment, same as you. I've got a contact through an old classmate. Someone wants to take me on, but it's in Scotland, you see."

Picus blinks. His eyes widen—in delight, for the first time in ages. He smiles. "You're not too ashamed of your old, number-crunching father?"

"'Family money helps keep some afloat, but wise decisions keep you safe and happy.'"

His smile brightens to a toothy grin. "Well, well. So you _did_ listen to me, all those years."

"You always said that on a regular basis. How could I forget?" Time for the spike of firewhiskey in his proverbial butterbeer: "After all, it's your and Grandfather Carrow's efforts that drew Professor Slughorn's eye to Hestia and me last year. He asked us to join his Slug Club knowing the future we have ahead of us."

Now Picus' grin falters. "The two of you, yes…"

Flora leans into her old self, her past self, the side of her that still felt empathy for others, and frowns. "Is something the matter? I thought this would be good news."

He waves her "worry" away. "No, no, it is, Flora, it is… It's just—" He pauses and strokes his chin where his beard used to be; where other men might forget to shave in worrisome times, Picus Carrow is a hygienic nervous man and never skips a day to keep himself proper. "I doubt Hestia's much interested in these things."

Flora shrugs. "She tried out Arithmancy with me, but she and it didn't agree. Nothing wrong with that."

"Yes, I suppose…" His eyes come back to her as if seeing her for the first time. "Scotland, you say?"

For a second, Flora's mask nearly slips. "Yes. I'm going for a short-term apprenticeship. A possible job awaits me at the end if I'm liked."

Picus is back to smiling. "That's wonderful." He grimaces. "But of those I know in Scotland, there aren't many sharp tools in the shed…"

"It's a relative of a classmate of Hestia's and mine. Montague?"

"Oh! Yes, Hestia mentioned the boy before. Huh. Must be a newcomer to the field…"

"Yes, his relative is." Flora internally groans. She hopes she doesn't have to give him more fabrications; it's hard enough coming up with plausible bits and pieces to sate his appetite for details.

"…all right, then."

Flora blinks.

Picus smiles sadly and holds his arms open for a hug. "But promise me that if trouble comes anywhere near you, you'll stay far, far away, all right?"

She can't make that promise, since she intends to go directly against such a wish. But she swallows her disgust and concedes to his hug. All the while, her mind and heart await her in Scotland…

…on High Street.

* * *

There are few other Wizarding trains besides the Hogwarts Express, but they do exist, and they connect the weary witch or wizard to main hubs in an instant, like a cross between Apparition and the Knight Bus. Flora's glad she doesn't have to cross such a large distance on her own magic, leaving her home in Wales.

Through a few more sweet words for her father, a curt word to her mother, and empty promises to her sister, Flora escapes without a send-off party. It makes it that much easier to meld into the new life she desires, even when she arrives in Hogsmeade and has no such luck with the "investment" business in the tiny village (it's a bank, she admits to herself, just a stupid old bank, nothing to be impressed with).

She's reduced to working her word magic on Rosmerta in order to be hired as extra help. Rosmerta, looking Dumbledore-ancient these days, hesitates, but where else is she going to come by an easy, eager worker like this? So Flora is hired, though most of her pay goes towards subsidizing her food and lodging since Flora's got no place to stay. Her savings can stay put for now, at least.

But, frankly, working at Hogsmeade is the best case scenario. It's not as if Flora could storm the castle to watch the goings-on, so hearing all the tales, no matter how tall or true they be, keeps her sane and keeps alive her hopes for a pure-ruled world.

On an errand to the Post Office for Rosmerta, Flora overhears two bedraggled workers exclaiming their delight in reading every last bit of post. They open packages, and any names they dislike (such as the few times Ginny Weasley's name crops up) get their things discarded if not outright burnt.

_Serves the blood-traitors right_, Flora thinks to herself with a smile on her face.

Passing by Puddifoot's, Flora notes the gaudy decorations have been stripped down to bare white and gray walls. People, the type Rhea would insist her daughters cross the street to avoid, line the counter there and cause a mess when they scarf down their food. Half the time they don't pay, which Flora disagrees with, but it's at least entertaining to watch the occasional black-clad diner yank up his sleeve and show Puddifoot his Dark Mark in lieu of payment. Puddifoot is so terrified these days that she's stopped wearing any shade of pink whatsoever.

It's one of these instances that has Flora returning to the Three Broomsticks with a smirk on her face. She doesn't even mind Rosmerta telling her to wipe down the empty tables after she passes the bar _matron_ the post. If Flora were the humming type, she might hum as she does her work.

Someone snorts at the booth behind her. "That's some sneer you've got there."

Flora's good mood vanishes. She turns with a sharp word on her tongue—and shuts up.

It's one of _them_.

She's never met them before, but she's had some free time to herself to rifle through old _Prophets_, enough time to memorize the Wanted posters, to know those around whom she'd like to be. Greyback isn't one—too dangerous. But Alecto and Amycus—they're practically kin, and yet not.

And there Amycus sits, lumpy face and tiny eyes, leering at her, half-drunk out of his mind.

Flora smiles, eyes the rest of the tables, and decides to walk over to him. "It's called a 'smile,' not a sneer."

"Then you're not doing a very good job of hiding it, luv."

She grows hot under the collar. She's had so much time to practice this façade. How dare he insinuate she lacks acting skill! Flora grits her teeth. "I think you're done for the night, sir."

That sobers him up. "Do you know who I am?"

"Amycus Carrow, of course." She crosses her arms. "Do you know who _I_ am?"

He scoffs. "Doubt I'd care."

She leans forward, her face mere inches from his. "Flora Carrow."

He blinks, his firewhiskey suddenly forgotten. His sneer returns. "…is that right?"

"Yes."

"Not from my side, then."

"Correct."

"We share a name only, sweetheart." Amycus releases the handle of his glass, scratches the inner part of his left wrist, drawing her attention to what is undoubtedly there beneath the leather cuff of his long sleeve.

Flora's eyes smolder. "Trust me—"

He quirks a lazy eyebrow.

"—that's not the only thing we have in common."

Unbelievably, Flora witnesses something striking that day:

A spark of childlike delight in a Death Eater's eyes.

* * *

There's no such thing as convincing a Death Eater she's on the same side with a simple "Yeah, me, too." Even though Amycus let slip that time his interest in her words, he doesn't buy it right away.

For the next several times, over the course of three weeks, Amycus calls Flora's ideals bullshit. "You're just a lost little girlie looking to piss off Mummy and Daddy," he informs her.

Flora sits across from him, prodding her dinner with her fork. Rosmerta refuses to bring her her food anymore, knowing how many times Flora has come over purposefully to sit with Amycus. But Flora doesn't mind. She simply plucks the plate from the old woman's hands and marches over on her own to wherever he sits.

"So, that said… Piss off," he orders Flora for the umpteenth time.

Now she rolls her eyes. "You've really got to come up with a better comeback. You're beginning to sound like a broken record, Amycus."

"That's '_Professor_ Carrow' to you, you slag."

She snorts—it sounds like an echo of his now, given how many times she's heard it. "I'm not a student anymore."

"When you're that young, you're always a student. You know nothing, little witch."

"Then teach me."

The air at their table is hot and cold all at once. Cold, for the Dark implications of her words. Hot, for the adult implications of her words. She feels the heat rising in her cheeks the longer Amycus takes to respond.

She's about to say "Forget it" and shovel the rest of her food into her mouth when Amycus exhales. The sound forces her eyes back up to his face.

"A willing student," he says, amending his opinion of her.

She holds her breath.

He waves—perhaps waving off his doubt? "Who am I to turn away a new servant of the Dark Lord?"

Her heart begins beating in her chest again. Flora wants to rush forward with a "thank you," but she stifles her manners. How dare her stupid parents train her politeness like some bloody owl.

"You will never be on the same level as me, though," he finishes. "I've been loyal to him from the time I was of age."

Flora could care less about their age when it comes to turning Dark (no, no, turning on the _right_ path, the _correct_ path!).

But something pings inside her at his words, about being on different levels. It's as if he's saying she'll never be his match.

For the first time in months, it's something that makes Flora hurt, even a little, yet she doesn't understand why.

* * *

Amycus starts her off lightly. Instead of sleep, he makes her join him outside the Three Broomsticks after her nighttime shift, on days when Alecto makes rounds about the castle on her own. "The castle's fine in her hands" is all he says about the matter, and Flora doesn't push it.

They go into the woods a short walk away. As the days progress, they go deeper and deeper into the woods, and Flora guesses that's because Rosmerta feels less and less emboldened to come running after her new worker if she's farther from the safety of the village.

Each day, Amycus has her practice two of the three Unforgivable Curses. "It's to numb you fully," he says. "You can't kill from day one. First, you have to kill your remaining humanity."

That snarky, talk-back part of Flora wants to laugh and insist those are big words coming from someone willing to teach her anything, to spend any of his free time on her. But she bites it back, because she can read him well enough to know he'll abandon this endeavor should she show any lack of heart in her Dark magic.

He starts her off small, beginning with insects and spiders. It reminds her of the rumor she heard in her fifth year, what happened when the blood-traitor Longbottom nearly fainted when Barty, Jr., masqueraded as Moody and performed all three curses in front of the fourth years. She mentions as much to Amycus.

The anecdote makes him laugh—a full, hearty laugh that smooths some of the lumps of his face, leaving only the round apples of his cheeks. "Damn! Never thought Crouch was all right in the head, but that's a beauty of a story. A right classic." He sighs as his laughter dies down. "A shame they locked him up."

Flora pauses. "Wait. The Ministry's changed, though, hasn't it? He's not still locked up, is he?"

Amycus grimaces. He locks eyes with her, narrows his eyes at her, while he decides how much to tell her. He growls as he turns away from the grasshopper she's torturing with the Cruciatus Curse. "…they placed him out of reach. But we'll find him."

The part of her they're working on destroying wants to reach out and touch his arm, comfort this man who frightens the world. He's just a man, though. He does things that others don't, and, even if he's not _friends_ with Barty, Jr., maybe he misses his comrade. Maybe Death Eaters give a damn about their own, in some way.

But she can't comfort Amycus. That's the wrong thing to do here.

Instead, she magically plucks the legs one by one off the grasshopper. "Good," she says. It's the closest she can come to being happy for him.

Amycus turns back to her. She can sense the tension leaving his shoulders the longer his eyes linger on the back of her head as she tries to find something bigger to practice on.

* * *

Rosmerta's comments don't leave a mark on Flora the more often she disappears with Amycus. At first, Rosmerta tries showing her concern, like a mother.

If only she knew how little Flora cared for Rhea Carrow herself.

Then Rosmerta switches to offhanded remarks about choosing the wrong side.

Those comments stop immediately when Flora spies a cockroach and casts the Imperius Curse on it, causing it to dance about the bar and nestle itself in Rosmerta's hair.

Rosmerta never says another word to Flora. Even pay and food come to her in total silence these days.

It's bliss, pure bliss, Flora decides. She's finally left in peace to spend her free time with Amycus, and it's no longer restricted to nighttime. Amycus has relented and invited her up to the castle four times now, in November, and she begins to meet likeminded others, experienced as well as newbies like herself.

Most of the names she forgets. She fakes bravado meeting Greyback once, and she breathes a sigh of relief when the barbaric werewolf bounds outside to give chase to some students sent to the Forbidden Forest as punishment.

The only one Amycus seems reluctant to introduce her to is his very own sister.

Careful but feeling plucky, Flora asks him why that is as November winds down. They stroll back to the castle on the covered bridge.

"We're part of the Dark Lord's inner circle," Amycus informs her. His chest puffs out a bit, very proud of himself, and Flora's only partially amazed. The other part of her wants to laugh and poke him in the chest. When he does this, he acts as if he's not just a head taller than her when standing up straight. It's as if he believes himself to be as tall as the giants.

"You're very lucky," she remarks.

He scowls at her. "It's not _luck_, Flora. It's hard work. It's talent." He curses and shakes his head. "You wouldn't understand."

She'd be hurt by his words if she weren't so distracted right now. Had she heard him correctly?

Had he called her "Flora"?

All this time, he's been avoiding calling her much of anything. If he must, it's all insults ("slag," "slut," "little witch," "bitch," "wannabe") or, on the rare occasion, something neutral ("Carrow," "little Carrow," "Darkling," "newcomer," "student").

In that moment, she realizes two things. One: She'd grown fond of "Darkling" for its closeness to "darling," as if someone might give a damn about her.

Two: Now that she's heard "Flora" from his lips, she never wants to hear anything ever again.

It's embarrassing, and she feels ashamed because he's right, he's been right all along. Quashing the humanity in her takes tremendous effort, and now she doubts she'll ever succeed.

She'll never be on his level, be his match.

She can't be the cold person he is.

* * *

She's wrong.

But not about herself.

There's been a flurry of activity since the end of November through the holiday break. That insufferable Dumbledore's Army is back in partial force, and torturing them in front of their mates and supporters has done anything but quell the growing rebellion.

Flora longs to show Amycus how her skills have improved by unleashing a curse on a first or second year, but their walks are mostly contained to emptied parts of the castle when classes that aren't his are in session.

Sometimes she wonders if Amycus knows this, because on occasion she catches him giving her a bemused smirk, especially when he thinks she's not looking as they round a corner.

They're not far from the Hospital Wing when a face Flora vaguely recalls comes rushing for them early after the start of the year on one of these walks. Powell (what a wimpy-sounding name) is the young Death Eater, and his face is white as a sheet when he spies Amycus with Flora. "Amyc—Carrow, sir!" Powell corrects.

"What," Amycus spits. He puts his hand on his hip, ready to reach for his wand. But the motion also puts him somewhat defensively in front of Flora. As if she needs protecting.

"Your—Your sister, sir! She's with Pomfrey! She got caught in a trap on her way to the dungeons—"

Amycus pales, whiter than this terrified Death Eater. The taught energy ebbs from him, though Amycus doesn't let his arm drop; he simply returns it to his side.

"Sir?"

"You! Patrol this corridor and send others to patrol that wing," Amycus barks. A man who often hunches, Amycus marches straight and tall for the Hospital Wing, and it's a while before he recalls he has a shadow. "Go home," he grouses when they reach the correct floor.

"Amycus—"

He wheels on her. His shape is imposing; she can understand why the students might be scared of him. But she isn't scared of a man she's seen laugh and grow wistful at the thought of comrades returned and how he spent his youth and much of his adulthood. "Go. Home."

"I know some Healing—"

"I don't care." And he turns without another word and hastens to where his sister waits.

But Flora knows better. She knows.

She knows he cares.

Perhaps not for her, but he cares.

_What a hypocrite_, she thinks as she turns and heads for the Three Broomsticks, thoughts of roast and butterbeer floating in her mind.

* * *

She tries to look down on him for being so weak, for giving a damn about anyone but himself, when she next sees him.

Amycus is uncharacteristically quiet when he shows up at the Three Broomsticks a week later. They've not communicated this entire time, and he stands rather withdrawn by the front door. He waits for her break, and then he even holds the door open for her when they leave (though, of course he does it when no one is looking).

Outside, they trek up the street. They leave Hogsmeade, nary a word between them, leaving footprints in the snow, his heavy and sad, hers dainty and almost imperceptible, as if she's trying to delete her existence (or at least the existence others have come to know).

They walk the castle grounds, and it's the third time passing the Clock Tower that Flora realizes they're going around in circles. She cocks an eyebrow while fresh snow falls around them—them, two dark blots in an expanse of white hiding more and more of the castle stones' gray.

Amycus hasn't slept, it seems. He's pale, paler than her, but his complexion's waxy right now, not healthy, and there are dark circles under his eyes. When he glances at her, she notes his eyes are bloodshot, too, but the pupils aren't blown. He's not drunk.

He's a little shell of a man.

Flora coaxes him with a hand on his arm, hidden beneath his robes, and he follows her up the staircase to inside the Clock Tower. Unsurprisingly, the Clock Tower is empty, and the noise of the clockwork sets her at ease. "You can talk now, you know," she tells him.

Amycus shoots her a look, but perhaps he's too tired to defy her. There's a gear nearby that's still and, gathering by the dust on it, hasn't moved for a long time. He sits on it and hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "…she's hurt, bad."

Flora frowns. "I figured as much. Will she be all right?" She doesn't assume Alecto's dead. Amycus would be murderous if she were dead—or so Flora infers.

"Pomfrey says so, but those little shits need to pay. They used one of those fucking _Weasley_ pranks and modified it to—" He grits his teeth. His glare is so forceful, the angle of his brows so sharp, he looks more beastly than Greyback. "A modified Stinging Jinx. She's been bedridden all this time, barely able to move, to eat, to _breathe_, Flora."

She has yet to meet Alecto properly, but her fondness for Amycus makes her see red.

(Something in the back of her mind niggles at her, that she can empathize because of her relationship with Hestia. But she ignores it. It's not like that anymore.)

"How can I help?" Flora says. Her own voice sounds alien to her ears. There's a steel edge that hasn't been there before.

Amycus deflates at her offer, as if coming to his senses. He looks away. "…we're not allowed to kill students."

"Who says? Snape says?" She scoffs. "Ignore the bastard."

"The Dark Lord says."

Flora bites her lip. "…oh."

"When we win this war, he wants to keep as many decent bloodlines alive and well. No killing unless he sanctions it."

"Damn." She chews on the nail of her right thumb, staring at the floor of the platform. She does a double-take when she realizes Amycus stares at her. "What?"

He laughs. At first, it's halfway between a bark and a cough. But then it's true, bursting-out laughing.

Flora's embarrassed for a heartbeat and utterly flustered as she glares at him. "What the hell, Amycus? Why are you—"

His movements are quick. He stands and takes two strides to her. Then his hand is on the back of her neck, moving up into her hair. He stoops down and kisses her, deep and rough and unrelenting.

Flora has almost no experience kissing anyone, but she knows she needs to breathe and manages all right. Considering the longer Amycus stays put and the way her fingers claw into the front of his waistcoat, gathering in angry, wrinkled bunches of jet fabric, she assumes either she's better than she believes or he's just as inexperienced (and considering his lack of people skills, that's a distinct possibility).

He breaks away an eternity later, holding her face in his hands.

She reaches up, running her fingers over his short crop, the fuzz tickling the pads of her fingers.

He looks as though he's trying his damnedest to hold on to the few things that remain dear to him.

And if that's the shred of humanity left in him, Flora won't tell a soul.

* * *

She's never been in a teacher's quarters before. The idea seems absurd when she awakes in the evening and notes she's missing one of her required shifts. (She's not worried about Rosmerta firing her, though. Not with how Flora's scared her. Not with knowing Amycus is Flora's associate.)

(…)

(What is he to Flora, really?)

Flora opens her eyes and stares around the room. It's nice for a single person to live in, and really only Amycus lives here. She can tell by the belongings and how his clothes are strewn about. The jokes people have made about an incestuous relationship with Alecto are nothing but hogwash.

Amycus sighs and tugs Flora's left arm on his side. "Stop prying," he chides.

"I'm not, honest. But I'd have to look eventually, Amycus."

He huffs.

"I can't leave in darkness. I'd trip. Stub my toe, probably."

There's a rumble in his chest, a wheezy sound, and his shoulders move. He's laughing. "You're ridiculous. You're no klutz."

Flora's surprised to hear his assessment. She peeks over his shoulder and sees his closed eyes. He's tired but awake. She doesn't begrudge him the rest (which really might be the first he's had in a week). She twines her fingers with his as he yanks her arm forward again, as if they're not close enough already.

"… …she's not my twin," he states.

"I didn't ask."

"But I'm telling you." He sighs. Everything in the room but them is still. "…we're not twins, we don't share a room or a bed—"

_Well, that's a relief_, Flora agrees mentally.

"—not even the same set of parents."

She tenses. She hopes, sweet Salazar, she hopes Amycus missed the movement. But it really is strange to know what her mother heard and repeated to the family is correct.

"Alec's a few years older than me. Her mother was obsessed with the Carrow name and wanted a boy to carry it on. When she got a girl instead, she took it out on her until our father met my mother." He breathes, and Flora does her best not to seethe at the nickname his sister gets—it's stupid to be jealous of her. "My mother…was an accident. I was an accident. When she learned about my father, not long after I was born, she…she disappeared."

Flora purses her lips. What to say? What to say to someone born into violence and murder?

He scoffs. "Who am I kidding? She didn't disappear. She killed herself." And he leaves it at that. Nevertheless, he pulls Flora's arm around him tighter, as if needing an anchor back to reality.

She supposes it makes a lot of sense now. Seeing each other as the only family they had. Having to face the world with only each other as an ally.

It's his story…and what she begrudgingly recognizes are feelings for him…that build a pool of icy coldness in the pit of her belly.

He made light of it before, but she knows. She's ready now.

She's ready for the Killing Curse.

* * *

For a week—and she laughs, because he'd gone a whole week without her—she comes to his quarters every night and sometimes in the afternoon.

He's like a child, she supposes, needing a security blanket in the steady comfort of flesh warmer than his own.

Flora doesn't mind. And she puts off Unforgivable practice until he's in his right mind, until Alecto's out and about and moving again like a healthy witch.

The two witches meet by accident, Alecto patrolling the corridors as Flora heads for Amycus' room. Flora hadn't even heard yet that Alecto would be out, and she looks completely fine. Alecto's also less intimidating than Flora thought she'd be, short, squat, round, with blond hair pulled into a neat bun. Her pudgy features are harsh and craggy in a way Amycus' have softened.

Flore instantly likes her (and subsequently ignores her conscience reminding her of her jealousy not that long ago).

Alecto eyes her up and down. Then she nods and continues on. That's all.

But that's all Flora could ever hope for.

Where one line of Carrows begged for, reached for the light, another line fought in darkness and triumphed in darkness.

And that's the one that matters.

Because it accepted Flora in a way her own family never would.

* * *

The frequency of Flora's visits decrease after that, but her closeness to Amycus refuses to diminish. And, with Alecto's approval—or is it gratitude, for how Flora cared for him while Alecto wasn't around?—Flora truly sees a future for herself now, under their tutelage.

She sees a Dark, Dark future.

_And she craves it._

February is a lark, scaring students as Valentine's comes and goes. The Carrow brother and sister still work to flush out more of the D.A. and its supporters despite more running away to join the rebellion—and Merlin knows where the students are going and staying hidden from their sight—but Amycus and Alecto are on their toes now more than ever, and they've managed to avoid a repeat of Alecto's hospitalization.

In March, amidst misty rain, Flora walks with Amycus in the Forbidden Forest, which has come to feel like home when outside his room in the castle.

They spook a bird from its nest, laughing, and Flora makes the small climb to get to the bundle of twigs.

"There are hatchlings," she calls down to Amycus.

"Damn. And here I was hoping for you to cook me some eggs."

Her face flushes at the thought of a home scenario with Amycus, and she shakes her head to rid herself of the daydream. "Hold on," she says. She grabs the nest, tucked under her arm, and climbs back down.

Amycus groans. "What the hell are you doing with that, Flora?"

"You'll see!" She waves a hand behind her to shush him, and she places the nest with the chirping babies on the forest floor. "Look, I've been practicing on my own, so…"

Amycus smiles and quirks an eyebrow. He crosses his arms after waving her on, as if to say "Well, then, let's have a show."

The first two curses come so easily now, she can pull them off nonverbally three-quarters of the time. She bashes two of the chicks' heads together over and over. The third she tortures until its screechy tweets become an irritating bit of noise.

And then—

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

A slim bolt of green light heads for the tortured chick. The mother circles above and cries out, dive-bombing Flora and Amycus, but Amycus flicks his wand and the mother bird explodes in a cloud of feathers. "Go on," he encourages Flora.

She still has to speak the Killing Curse, but she empties the nest.

"Well done, my girl," Amycus says, that hand back on her neck and in her hair. And he rewards her with a kiss.

Finally, Flora feels at home.

* * *

But, those happy times aside, things only get darker from there on out.

And not the way she'd hope.

She notes an increase in the number of Death Eaters prowling the grounds and filling Hogsmeade. It feels as if she and Amycus will never have another private moment. "Is something coming?" she asks him, worried. April's been nothing but steady rain and increasing humidity.

They're in the Clock Tower again, dressing, because this seems to be the last place underlings come looking for a senior Death Eater for advice and instruction. "I've heard rumors. Dolohov thinks the Dark Lord will come here soon, though I don't understand why."

Flora frowns, an expression Amycus runs his thumb over, turning her face in towards his chest. "We've got to win this ridiculous debate," she hisses, and he sighs his agreement.

But their remarks matter little when, days later, all hell breaks loose when Harry Potter and his friends enter Hogsmeade.

The Caterwauling Charm shrieks in echoes throughout the village, and Flora's blood ices over, knowing an intruder has arrived. She dresses while others in the Three Broomsticks put locks on their doors, and she hurries outside, staying out of the way of the Death Eaters who arrive and scour every corner and shadow for Undesirable No. 1.

The journey up to Hogwarts is longer than Flora wishes. She has to pause several times to assure the stray Death Eater or Dark Lord supporter that she's one of them, and sometimes she lucks out when someone from the castle recognizes her from being about with Amycus and Alecto.

But by the time she's inside the grounds, the ruckus is enough to let her know the battle has arrived on their front doorstep.

Flora wants to do nothing but find Amycus…maybe even Alecto…but she's dragged into the fight at times.

She Blasts apart a boulder meant to squash Acromantulas.

She knocks a Dark witch off her feet to avoid a spell from a Ravenclaw boy barely younger than Flora herself.

She even winds up in a corridor with Powell, and they duel a pair of plainclothes wizards until Powell knocks them out. If she had the time, Flora would do more than congratulate her partner and go kill the wizards for good measure, but she _can't_.

She has to find Amycus and find him _now_.

The battle stretches. It stretches minutes into hours, night into morning into day, barely breaths into stillness, adrenaline into reserves, tiredness into confusion.

Flora scours every inch of the castle where it is safe to pass. Students that she recognizes, from around school or from Slughorn's parties, are fighting, cowering, or dead. But it doesn't matter.

She has to find Amycus and _find him_ _now_.

Raging human and centaur and giant and Acromantula alike cause the clamor enveloping her. On occasion, her conscience chides her for foolishly running in. On occasion, she thinks she hears Hestia begging her to leave and come home.

Someone tries to grab her, but she shakes them off, relieved when a wall is blasted and stones rain down and separate her from her would-be captor. Good. Because she can't be captured, not now and not ever.

She has to _find Amycus_ and _find him now_.

The battle stills for some reason, Voldemort demands Harry Potter, the twat, be handed over, and Flora really wishes someone would, so she could just find Amycus and Alecto, make sure they were fine. Or at least Amycus.

Once upon a time, if someone had hurt Hestia, Flora would've felt a piece of her being ripped out of her. But now that feeling lies solely with Amycus.

_She has to find Amycus and find him now._

And then…

The battle is over.

The war is won.

And Flora's new task is to keep her head down and hide in the shadows as the Dark Lord's remaining forces are rounded up, alive or dead.

Fear that she's never felt before surges through her veins, and she sprints. A sob catches in her chest—

_She has to find Amycus—_

—her feet ache terribly and she's going to be caught at this point—

_But she has to find Amycus—_

—that black wizard from the Ministry, Whatshisname Shacklebolt, and Gryffindor's old captain, Oliver Wood, look in her direction, and Flora darts to the right to hide, to catch her breath, to get rid of the stitch in her side—

_She needs to find Amycus right this minute—_

…no one comes for her.

No one at all.

They hadn't even seen her but Powell lagging behind her.

To his credit, when he's caught, he doesn't give Flora up to save himself.

Either he's a decent bloke or he respected his senior Death Eater and decided Flora is Amycus' only chance.

…but what chance? Flora thinks when she skulks about the shadows late into the evening, after many have gone and dozens upon dozens upon dozens of bodies across various species have been gathered both inside and outside the ruined castle.

She never even saw them, but she hears of their fates when Shacklebolt catches Potter up in the remains of the Great Hall as another dawn breaks.

"Of those caught, Harry, we've got several returning guests," the black wizard says. There's a dried cut on his left cheek that Flora can spot even from the boulder behind which she hides right outside the castle.

"A shame they're returning and not done in," Potter states darkly.

If Shacklebolt's shocked, he doesn't show it. "Hey, Crabbe and Goyle, Srs., are gone. But we've caught Nott, Jugson, the Carrows—"

"Both of them?"

"Alecto and Amycus both."

"Good. They did their fair share to my friends."

Had she the energy, Flora would let her black anger seethe and roil and drive her at them.

But she still has some sense about her, and she also acknowledges that, against the like of Potter and Shacklebolt—especially at the same time—she wouldn't stand a chance.

Flora waits for the right moment, an hour or two later, when it is clear and safe to move. And then…she's on the run.

Because Flora isn't a fighter, she's a strategist.

_And if Amycus has been caught alive, then there's a chance yet._

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Hmm. This…despite including a lot of hcs, esp regarding Flora, was extremely difficult to write. Parts turned my stomach (like her practicing the Unforgivables), and yet…writing a villain is kind of important? At least in the sense that, writing cruelty and violence and being uncomfortable with what was going on, I have some faith in my humanity, I guess, *lol*. I am a fan of writing Death Eaters, though I've never written a story quite like this before (I make them more morally gray or turn them somewhat good), and it was rly eerie to see Floramycus just…enjoy being evil together. Like wtf. XD I hadn't rly stopped to develop many ideas about Amycus and Alecto before now, but I did kind of like what I posited here, about how they get along and also how they're related. But, man… Flora is evil and desperate and I'm still debating doing a sequel to see if she can break him out. Or if I even want to see that. Wow. (And this coming from a girl who has a cute, yes, CUTE Fenrir Greyback OTP.) Idek what else to say, other than I kinda like the OCs in this one (the twins' parents and Powell). Ah, well. Final note: The twins' middle names, "Carnelia" and "Seraphinia," were inspired by actual gemstones—carnelian (a bright red stone) and seraphinite (a dull green stone); I included such a detail to be a touch more on-the-nose about Hestia's and Flora's differences. ;]
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please review!
> 
> -mew-tsubaki :O


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